


another world (with you)

by darkavengerz (darkavenger)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Inspired By Tumblr, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 21:56:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2244717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenger/pseuds/darkavengerz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a tumblr post about characters catching their alternate universe selves making out. </p><p>Grif and Simmons deal with it. Or don't. Tucker thinks it's hilarious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	another world (with you)

**Author's Note:**

> based on this post by tumblr user neferipitou.  
> http://neferipitou.tumblr.com/post/96146815230/adds-we-just-caught-our-alternate-universe-selves

“Is that – is that us?” Grif sounds horrified. To be fair, it is pretty weird watching their doppelgangers, or alternate universe counterparts or whatever, making out, but Simmons thinks that maybe _that’s_ not the part of this scenario that should be freaking them out. Turns out that leaving Caboose alone with some of the weirder alien tech they’d found in that creepy alien temple was a really bad idea.

 “I think so?” Simmons says, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight. It’s horribly fascinating and sorta mortifying, in the same way finding your old myspace profile is; the person in the photos is undeniably you, but you’re completely embarrassed by the ridiculous poses you pulled back then, no matter how sincere you were about them at the time. Alternate-him and alternate-Grif certainly know no shame, and everything they lack in technique they make up in enthusiasm.

“Ew, gross.” Grif seems like he’s equally unable to stop himself from gawking. “Alternate-me has terrible taste.”

“Hey Simmons! Grif! Stop making out and get over here!” Sarge calls, standing in the archway of the weird alien temple thing they’d stumbled across, one of the Cabooses beside him.

“Did he just -?”

“I think so.”

“Hey, Sarge! What gives, man? That’s our alternates, not us!” Grif calls back angrily, storming over.

“Can’t you tell us apart?” Simmons trails forlornly in his wake.

“Yeah, here’s a piece of advice, the pair of us that’s sucking face - not the real us!”

“Aw, shut yer yapping. Can’t blame me fer getting confused, it’s not like you two are real subtle,” Sarge says brusquely.

“And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Grif demands, crossing his arms in a manner Simmons can’t help but think looks a little defensive.

 _Not helping our case_ , he thinks silently, but aloud he just shrugs and says, “No idea.”

“I _think_ that what he is saying is that everyone knows that you two are best friends, _eeeven_ if sometimes you act as if you don’t like each other,” Caboose says, nodding wisely. “Like Church when he yells at me to shut up and to go away! But it’s okay, I know he doesn’t mean it and that we are _best! friends!”_

“Ugh, shut the fuck up Caboose!” Church’s voice floats out from inside the temple.

“See!” Caboose says happily, “ _best! friends!”_

“Just… get in the temple you guys,” Church says, appearing before them.

“Who wants to go break up that happy couple?” Grif says with a wince, jerking his head at in the direction his and Simmons’ alternates are still kissing.

Simmons doesn’t think they’ve actually surfaced to breathe the whole time they’ve been standing here, and he wonders if maybe they come from a universe where you don’t actually need to breathe to live. It seems like the only explanation for how that’s possible. The why is still a mystery, but Simmons is afraid to even start postulating possible explanations for that question.

“Shotgun not me,” Grif says quickly.

“Fuck!” Simmons hisses, glaring at Grif. “Don’t make me do it! That’s so awkward! Sarge, please. Make Grif do it.”

“Oh believe me, I would, except his incompetence means we’d probably be here all day, and I can’t handle being in a universe with two Grifs  for much longer,” Sarge says. “I’ll handle it. Hey, lovebirds!” he bellows, striding over. “Don’t make me get the hose out!”

Other him and other Grif separate with visible reluctance.

A minute later, and they’ve all managed to assemble inside the temple, forming a loose circle around the weird alien gizmo that Caboose had been ‘playing’ with when all this shit had gone down and the duplicates had appeared.

The two Washs, two Carolinas, and two Churches claim to have figured out how to work the thing. Simmons feels a stab of jealousy that nobody had let him near the cube ( _“No offence, Simmons,”_ Wash had said, _“but we don’t need you making things any worse.”)_

“Right,” Wash says, doing something with the gizmo, “if our calculations are correct, this should work.”

“It’d better fucking work,” Church says, “if it turns out I’m stuck with two of each of you assholes, I’m going on a fucking killing spree.”

“I’ll give you a hand,” his alternate agrees, looking balefully round.

“Well, we’ve learnt that you’re a raging asshole in every universe today, if nothing else,” Tucker says, arms folded.

“Not that there was any doubt about that,” Tucker two chimes in. The two fistbump in our-best-friend’s-an-asshole solidarity.

“Can we hurry this up?” One of the Carolina’s cuts in.

“Of course,” Wash says, “just, everyone stand back, okay? Especially you, Caboose. Cabooses.”

He places the gizmo on the floor, and steps back.

For a moment, nothing happens. No flashing lights, no screeching as the fabric of time and space itself tears apart, not even a bang and a puff of smoke. It’s distinctly anti-climactic.

Then, it happens; it starts as a strange, almost inaudible hum, that steadily grows in intensity until Simmons can feel the vibrations rattling his teeth, shaking through his whole body, and then the gizmo… blossoms, unfolding outwards like some very weird metal flower. The polished surface it forms on the floor seems show them reflected in it, but as they move closer, crowding in to get a better look, Simmons notices something odd about the way their reflections move, like there’s a weird lag between the reflections and the real them.

“Creepy,” one of the Tucker’s says sing-song. His double nods in agreement.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” Wash says, ever practical. He nods to his counterpart, “Good luck.”

Apparently that’s all the farewell those two need, and the second Wash steps on and somehow into the reflection, in a way that it hurts Simmons eyes to try and follow.

Caboose gasps loudly. “Agent Washington! The other you is gone!”

“That’s the idea,” the alternate Carolina says. “Well, it didn’t seem to kill him, so I guess I’ll go through next.”

“Nice to see how much faith you had that other me would be okay,” Wash says dryly.

Carolina shrugs. “Better you than us.”

Without further fanfare, her double steps through the dimensional doorway.

“I’d say it was a pleasure, but it really wasn’t,” the alternate Church says. “Later, losers.”

“Wait, Church two is going?” Caboose says, sounding stricken. “Nooo, I’m going to miss him so much! I want him to stay! Then I can have two best friends!”

“Yeah,” the other Caboose agrees, looking wistfully at Church. He sighs. “That’d be so great.”

“Wait,” Caboose says, gasping, “does that mean I will have to share my Church with other me?”

“Oh, that is fucking priceless,” one of the Tuckers says, snickering; both Churchs say very loudly and insistently, _“_ I’m not your Church!”

The Cabooses exchange mystified glances. "I think that one's mine," one of them says in a loud whisper, pointing at the alternate Church.

“Can I leave mine here?” alternate Church asks wearily.

“Hell no,” Church disagrees, shaking his head, “this one is more than enough.”

“Yes!” Caboose crows, clapping his hands triumphantly, “I’m your Caboose!”

Church groans. Alternate Church shakes his head disgustedly, and steps towards the portal. His last words float back, “Fuck this shit.”

“Church!” Alternate Church yelps, stumbling after his leader and vanishing through the portal.

“Church two!” Caboose lunges forward, and is only stopped from crossing into the other dimension by Wash, who reacts with Freelancer-swift reflexes, slamming an armoured arm into Caboose’s chest and stopping him dead in his tracks.

“Nice save, Agent,” alternate Grif comments sarcastically, “you couldn’t have just let him go through, could you?”

“I always knew you hated me, Wash,” Church says hollowly, “I just never knew how much until this moment.”

Tiredly, Wash pushes Caboose gently towards the door. “Stay away from the portal, Caboose.” He turns and looks expectantly at the remaining duplicates.

“Well, it’s been real,” alternate Tucker says, stepping forward. He nods to his other self. “Keep up the good work, me.”

“Y’know, I’m gonna actually miss you,” Tucker says, sounding wistful.

“You too, buddy,” second Tucker says. For a moment, they stare mistily into each other's eyes, or rather, each other's visors. 

Seconds pass, and someone, probably Wash coughs uncomfortably.

"Jeez," Griff mutters under his breath, beside Simmons. "I feel like I'm intruding on something private. And kinda incestuous."

Carolina shifts menacingly, hand straying towards her holster. “Hurry it up, you two.”

“Fine, fine,” second Tucker says, breaking eye-contact and stepping forward into the portal, voice trailing out after him, “I should go, can’t deprive my universe of me after all…”

Wash sighs long-sufferingly. "There's a fine line between self-confidence and just narcissism you  know, Tucker?"

"Eh," Tucker shrugs carelessly, "I like to think I find a healthy balance."

Wash sighs long-sufferingly, and turns to look at the others.

“Just the Reds left now,” Sarge says, nodding to his counterpart. “Well, what can I say. It’s been a real pleasure.”

“Took the words right outta my mouth,” second Sarge agrees, holding out his hand for a handshake, "it's not often I met someone with your tactical brilliance." They clasp hands, and then break away. Second Sarge looks round, gaze fixing on alternate Grif and Simmons. “Right, you two, after me. Simmons, you might want to go through on your own, don’t know if this thing’s gotta weight limit, but I figure we don’t want to test it.”

“Fuck you,” both Grifs respond automatically, before glancing at each other sheepishly.

“That’s fuck you, sir!” the second Sarge responds, and then he’s stepping forward and gone.

“Just you two left,” Tucker says to alternate Grif and Simmons, amusement dripping from his voice. “D’you want want to hold hands on your way out?”

“Oh, fuck you guys,” alternate Grif says, sounding bored.

“Not really my type, thanks all the same,” Tucker says, then laughs. “Damn, that was quick. If only other me was here, he’d have appreciated my wit.”

“Wit and you don’t belong in the same sentence, Tucker,” Wash says, shaking his head. He turns to the other Grif and Simmons. “You guys should probably leave though, we’re not familiar enough with this kind of tech to be able to guarantee it staying open for any length of time.”

“Yeah, fine,” Grif nods, taking a step towards the portal. “Our guys are dicks too, but they’ve got most of the gay jokes out of their system by now. C’mon, Simmons, let’s blow this joint.”

Alternate Simmons steps forward, then pauses as Simmons lets out an anguished noise. “What’s up with me?” he asks sounding confused.

“I think he’s just totally freaking out over the fact that our alternates are apparently boning!” Grifs bursts out. He's been holding that in since outside, Simmons thinks. They'd been so close to letting this incident go by without a comment as well. “Like, why?" Grif continues, shaking his head, "he’s such a fucking pain in the ass!”

“Bowchicka –“

“ - If you finish that thought, I will murder you,” Grif says, without turning to look at Tucker.

Alternate Grif and Simmons glance at each other, then shrug. Wordless communication seems to pass between them. It’s freaky and weird, yet oddly familiar at the same time.

“Honestly? You want to know how we got together?" alternate Simmons asks. He pauses for a second as if thinking, then shrugs, “Eh. To be honest, I’m not sure how it happened, but it keeps happening, and I’m strangely okay with it.”

“Don’t sound too happy,” alternate Grif says irritably, shoving his Simmons in the side. “Like I’m not the best damn thing that ever happened to you, nerd.”

“Oh, you’re so full of yourself, lard-ass,” Simmons scoffs derisively, but his tone can’t distract from the fact that their hands are brushing against each other, fingers hooking loosely onto the other's.

“Stop that,” Grif yells, sounding oddly pleading. “Those aren’t petnames!”

“Yeah, sure,” Sarge snorts under his breath; even Wash and Carolina seem amused.

“Stop what?” alternate Simmons asks, sounding baffled.

“Stop,” Grif waves his hands, “I don’t know, stop existing. You’re making things weird.” He takes a deliberate step away from Simmons’ side, as if it’s proximity that’s the problem.

“Oh, fine,” alternate Simmons scoffs, “you big babies.” He tilts his visor towards alternate Grif and says in not quite an undertone, “I forgot how obnoxious you were about us in the start.”

Grif makes a strangled noise, spinning away as if he can’t quite bear to watch them.

“Oh yeah, like you’re any better,” Grif retorts, “You just freak out more quietly.”

“Guys,” Wash says, patience running thin. He jerks his head towards the floor and the dimensional doorway. It might be Simmons’ imagination, but the metal looks a little foggier, the odd reflections a little harder to make out.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re going,” alternate Grif replies, and steps forward, fingers still linked with Simmons’. They blink out of sight. The metal abruptly darkens, then closes up with a snap. Silence falls, for a second at least.

“You can turn around again, Grif,” Tucker says, a hint of a taunt still in his voice. “It’s safe, the gay you is gone.”

“How about you shut the fuck up,” Grif hisses, whirling round and advancing on Tucker, who takes a couple of steps back despite himself.

“Hey, Simmons, call your boyfriend off, would ya?”

“He’s not my boyfriend!” Grif’s voice raises into a shout.

“You know,” Simmons says to Tucker conversationally, “just for the boyfriend comment, I’m tempted to let him try and kill you.”

“What the hell is wrong with you people,” Carolina says, shaking her head, and leaving. Caboose edges out after her, the tension in the air scaring him off. Sarge seems to make his mind up that whatever’s going on, he wants no part of, and follows after the others.

Grif snarls at Tucker.

“Right. Stop this,” Wash snaps, temper flaring as he steps in between them. “Tucker, enough with the comments. You’re not as funny as you think you are. Grif, calm down. It’s not a big deal. They’re not you. We all get that. I think you do, too.” He gives Grif a hard, knowing look, “Maybe you need to think about why you’re letting it bother you so much.” Then turns on his heel and goes, leaving Grif, Simmons, and Tucker alone.

Tucker takes one look between them, then promptly turns away and starts walking. “I’m out. Something tells me I do not want to be here for this talk.”

An awkward silence forms in the gap between Simmons and Grif. For some reason, they can’t seem to look at each other. It’s uncomfortable, and that bothers Simmons. They’ve spent a lot of time together, to make a gross understatement, and though even they couldn’t fill every moment of that time with chatter, this wasn’t their normal, comfortable silence. Simmons shifts his weight from foot to foot, glancing over at Grif surreptitiously. The visor hides his expression, but Grif’s body language has always been expressive, and from the way the other soldier’s shoulders hunch he’s feeling closed-off; angry and defensive.

“Look,” Simmons blurts out, just wanting to break the awful silence, “Wash is a dick, but he’s right. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“Shut up, Simmons,” Grif says coldly.

That… that tones hurts, and it makes his hackles rise. “Fine," he says stiffly, "I’ll go, since you obviously can’t stand to be around me now, you fucking dick.”

He turns, and something slams into him, sending him flying into the cave wall. Before he can react, strong arms flip him, pin him back. “Oh, real mature, Grif,” he wheeze sarcastically, winded. “I get it, point proved. You don’t like m –mphf!”

His jaw click shut as Grif’s helmet crashes against his, cutting off his words. “Ow!” He glares, wide-eyed throught the visor at Grif, wishing he could see the other man’s face if only so he could better judge just how badly he’d lost the plot. “Did you just headbutt me?” he asks, disbelievingly.

 _“Shut – up!”_ Grif hisses again, letting go of Simmons’ wrists to fumble at the sides of his helmet, fingers scrambling against the smooth metal clasps.

“Hey, what the fuck are you doing?” Simmons protests, startled and increasingly alarmed as Grif pulls his helmet off and reaches for his own.

Simmons tries to move, break free, but Grif just _snarls_ at him again. “You are acting really odd,” Simmons tells him, “like, O’Malley level odd. Do I need to get Wash in here?”

“Not unless you want him to see this,” Grif says, dropping his helmet carelessly to the side and stepping forward, bridging the already small gap between them.

“What –“ is all Simmons has time to ask, eyes widening as understanding dawns and Grif reaches up, crashes their lips together angrily, biting at Simmons’ lips demandingly and licking his way in, one hand curled possessively around the back of Simmons’ neck.

It would be embarrassing, his response to the kiss, the way his knees go weak and he gasps against Grif’s mouth, arms wrapping tight around him like he’s the only thing holding him up, it would be, if it wasn’t that Grif seems equally desperate. Eventually they break apart, panting and wide-eyed. 

“What the hell was that about?” Simmons asks. He hopes it’s obvious that the question is just one born from confusion rather than anger or regret. He thinks the way he’s still holding onto Grif, the way he can’t stop looking at Grif gives that away.

Grif hesitates, shrugs. “Hell if I know. But I think I want it to happen again.”

 


End file.
